Supernatural. Sam/Dean. Commissioned by Stormcloude.

Dean knows only the weight and pleasure of the way Sam’s gaze moves over his skin.

Laid Bare

They’re kissing for long minutes, necking really, wet and slippery with hot pushes of tongue between the smearing crush of lips on stubble-pricked skin. Sometimes Dean can’t believe how quickly he’s adapted to making out like this in public with appreciative, watchful eyes on them, but none of the guys know they’re brothers. Dean keeps that secret to himself whenever Sam wants to parade him around and show off what gets him moaning, what makes him come the hardest. In a crowd like this, odds are more than a few would find it hot knowing the truth, but that’s something just for the two of them, their little sin when everything else is laid bare.

Shivers seize Dean as Sam strips him of his shirt, tugs it up and over his head. Already, his nipples are taut, his skin crawling with something hot and wanton, and his ass, fuck, his asshole clenches in anticipation of doing whatever the hell Sam wants.

Sam kisses him deeper, tongue licking against his, and Sam takes in every sound that creeps from his throat, translates the wordless noises into the right kind of touches to make him quiver. Sam peels off what’s left of Dean’s clothes, and then, slowly, slowly, all of his hesitation, his worries and his misgivings. Before long, he’s begging, mouth parted on needy sounds and the bruised flush of his lips faltering on the simplest of kisses.

“You ready?” Sam asks, his hands framing Dean’s shoulders, and Dean lets himself feel vulnerable, exposed, naked beyond the warm glow of his skin in the dim orange lights.

“Yes,” Dean breathes, and shivers when Sam smiles. It’s so different when they’re in a place like this, when their usual roles are stripped away by the anonymity of warehouse walls, leather and sex.

Sam isn’t afraid to be a god here.

Dean keeps his eyes locked to Sam’s as he’s released into greedy, clutching hands. Bodies crowd around him, stroke and touch and Dean knows only the weight and pleasure of the way Sam’s gaze moves over his skin. Sam licks his lips, watches intently as Dean is taken over and over, fucked open and sloppy until he can’t even hold himself up for the next cock that lines up to slam into his greased-up hole.

“So gorgeous,” Sam says. “So perfect.”

Hands covering every inch of his arms and legs, someone’s cock bottoming out in him, Dean accepts it, believes it.

*

End

Supernatural. Sam/Dean. R.

Supernatural. Sam/Dean. R.

Most nights he’ll take the sweet slowness that the fucker prefers

Supply and Demand

“This is your here. This is your now.”

This is my here. This is my now.

“This is your everything yet to come.”

Alastair has a sinuous way about him. He’s not the serpent in the garden; there are others who move like that, graceful steps predatory with intent. Alastair reflects a darker something, a scourge that fouls a room like the wet spill of intestines.

“Shall we?” he asks, and the puppet face he wears today smiles in Dean’s direction.

*

“What’s his name? Why is he here?”

Alastair strokes a slender hand over the trembling soul’s thin hair, loose curls so blond they might as well be white. His hooded eyes raise to meet Dean’s, and the soul on his table twists against the bonds. Flesh pales then purples where wrapped wire bites skin. “You always ask, why is that?”

“Sometimes you answer.”

“Touché.” Alastair produces a set of needles. They bristle long and gleaming between each of his fingers. He shifts his hand to make the points quiver, catch the greenish lights sputtering in his mockery of an operating room. “Not today, my boy,” he murmurs, and Dean can’t tell if the comment is for his benefit or if the child-shaped soul on the rack has been offered the same deal as he.

Can’t let him have it.

Dean steels himself against baby blue eyes that plead wetly with him—in Hell, he reminds himself, appearances are deceiving. The rack shifts to fit any form, even one like this: vulnerable and small and not at all as innocent as those big, teary eyes would have him believe. Ten isn’t too young to sin, but it is also a comfortable age. Dean has lost count of how many hysterical souls he’s watched regress into the false safety of childhood, the bravado of adulthood shrinking into narrow throats that scream for mommy.

“What did you do to deserve this?” Dean asks. “Were you greedy for money? Power? Or was it sins of the flesh.” Somehow, asking always makes them struggle harder. It must have been something, though, and Dean doesn’t flinch when Alastair passes him the first needle.

When he’s done and the soul dragged from the room by its chains, Alastair praises him.

God help him if that praise ever brings him pleasure. One by one, Dean cleans each of Alastair’s favourite implements. His muscles are relaxed, but there is a tingling in his guts, a subtle buzzing of fear and relief and queasy gratitude.

God help him if he ceases to worry that it will.

*

“Oh, Dean, I thought you brighter than that.” Alastair’s newest visage, Dean knows, is entirely for his benefit. Alastair at his cruelest likes to get to know his playthings inside and out and find ways to hurt them beyond the skin.

“Hell is punishment,” Dean says, and knows, fucking knows, he shouldn’t find solace in this.

Alastair smiles, an oilslick on the perfect lines of Sam’s face. “Hell is far more than the meagre handful of places that you know, Dean. It is at the core a machine,” he says, his hands cupped to Dean’s sides, his thumbs brushing soft just under the darkness of Dean’s nipples. “A beautifully performing factory.”

Dean shivers. The darkness inside him wants to believe it really is Sam pressing a kiss against his neck. Alastair knows better, and a soft, hungry sound crawls under Dean’s skin.

“Your daddy figured that out quick enough,” Alastair says. Teeth scrape against the jump-flutter pulse in Dean’s neck. “Carved up a few souls and knew that punishment had hardly a thing to do with our business.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s almost not listening, his muscles going taut and desperate under gentle caresses. “’Cause your business is what, your pleasure?”

“Isn’t it though,” Alastair purrs. He pushes up on his wrists, and here, with the shadows deep on the planes of Sam’s face, Dean can almost believe. He bucks his hips in soundless begging. He moans when the weight of his brother’s body lowers onto him, smothers him with skin and kisses. Alastair’s silence and the illusion only lasts long enough for Dean to forget and call Sam’s name. “But that’s not it. That’s not it at all. Use that big noggin’ of yours…. Unless the apple’s rolled so far from the tree you shouldn’t be permitted to lay claim to the name Winchester.”

Dean twists, his hands wringing the ink black sheets. Most nights he’ll take the sweet slowness that the fucker prefers. It lets him—escape—cling to reality, because Sam wouldn’t be like this; Sam’s always been awkward and hesitant over the stupidest things but never so methodical. Sam would suck marks onto his skin, fuck him spread open until there was come leaking messy on his thighs, and it would be perfect until dawn came and showed them what they’d done.

“Can’t—” Dean locks eyes with Alastair to whisper a plea. More. The bastard takes it at face value.

“A factory,” Alastair repeats. He curls over Dean, the shape of Sam’s body almost protective as his arms frame Dean’s face. And Dean pretends not to recognise it as a trap to keep him from turning his head. The change will come; Alastair will never grant him what he wants unless there’s more to be gained. For now, he wets his lips and moans at the slick push of Sam’s cock buried to its length inside his willing body.

Please.

“One more beautifully constructed than even the body,” Alastair says. His hips snap forward, eyes losing their pupils to flare demonic as his perversity soaks up the way Dean calls out and meets the thrust. “It’s far more simple than that mess of organs and arteries.”

Dean might be able to tune out Alastair’s taunting, but he can’t look away from the slow ripple when it happens. The pressure of wide hands on his temples goes firm, and Alastair digs thumbs into the soft fleshiness above Dean’s eyes. Better than needles, or clamps, or not having lids at all. Dean fucks himself against Alastair desperately, trying to beat the change, but as usual, Alastair’s timing is impeccable.

As is his rhythm. The fucker knows Dean’s body so well he holds Dean on the vertigo edge of orgasm twice before Dean is forced to throw weak arms around the shape of his father’s back and plead for release.

Alastair is so very charitable when the stretch of his smile scrapes Dean’s face just so. “Souls come in,” he says, cock slamming deep. “Soldiers go out.”

*

This is my everything yet to come.

“Shall we?” Dean asks.

*

End

Dean’s been Sam’s protector since the demon took Mary, and what greater betrayal than what John let his youngest do?

Where the Devil Sleeps

Their base of operations is a week-to-week furnished with thrift store castoffs and mismatched carpet. Tacked-up sheets cover the windows, the late afternoon sun glowing amber through a pattern of stripes and faded roses. One wall is riddled with pinholes and bristling with maps and newspaper clippings. Half of the hunts are history—souls laid to rest, dark beasts put down—with all the important lore noted in John’s journal. The remainder are the framework of open cases, sketchy bits and pieces of hearsay and potential strangeness, skeletons in a hundred mile radius that might flesh out to something worth his time or be passed on when it’s time to move to the next town.

Sam isn’t going to want to pack up again. The boy never does, gets sullen and tight-mouthed whenever they’re hauling their bags out to the car in the pre-dawn chill. John closes his eyes, stomach pitching like a sinking ship. Sam’s mouth isn’t something he wants to think about, not after the Phelps’s back acre woods. The hurt in his shoulder lingers, a deep-muscle ache that seizes up when he wakes in the morning or takes more than a breather during the day.

“Shoulder still bothering you?” Dean asks from the doorway. He’s a shadow in a thin black tee and dark jeans, the bruises that had kept him out of the harpy nest faded to nothing. The limp is only a slight hitch in his step as he enters the gloom of the living room.

“A bit.” John flexes his elbow and sets down his pen. Closing the journal on a page filled with cribbed notes, he leans back and turns to regard his son. The cheap wooden chair creaks under his weight. “Your brother at the library?”

“Until closing. Promised I’d pick him up.”

John lowers his head in a nod. A faint flush of shame warms his collar. He doesn’t blame the kid for avoiding him more than usual. There’s no undoing what happened, and nothing to say to make the moment fade faster. He’s managing with the memory of it; Sam would have to do the same.

Edged into the room to haunt the space near the television stand, Dean’s gaze skims the pages upon pages tacked to the wall. He’s got tension writing a line between his brows. John keeps an eye on him since it’s not like Dean to hover, and catches him rereading the same old article for a third time.

“You got something you want to say to me, Dean?”

Dean straightens up, stops avoiding eye contact to acknowledge John, but drops his gaze to the floor quick enough. He gnaws briefly on his lip before he swallows and wets them with a hasty lick. “Sir.”

John swivels to sit sideways in the chair, ready to face the accusation head on. Dean’s been Sam’s protector since the demon took Mary, and what greater betrayal than what John let his youngest do? Wanted, at that base physical level that knew the pleasure of a mouth was twenty times better than what he got by on. When Dean’s fist closes white-knuckled, John stands. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans–he’ll take the blow, but he won’t take it sitting down.

“Should’ve been me,” Dean says in a growling rush, a strike to the gut that sends John back a step. “Me, not him.”

“Son-”

“No, Dad. If I hadn’t been too slow on the last hunt, Sam wouldn’t have even needed to be there.” Dean looks up, his eyes shining. His brows pull tight, deepening the furrow in his forehead, and he closes the space between them in three heavy steps to grab the open collar of John’s shirt. Dean’s long since done with his growth spurts, but his muscles are still filling out, and standing eye-to-eye with his son, John can see the echoes of the man he’ll grow into. “He’s just a kid…”

“I know,” John says, words forced out past stinging bile in his throat. “What’s done is done. It’s not up for debate or hindsight.”

“A kid. A stupid, fucking kid.” Dean’s voice breaks midway through, his hands twisting deeper into John’s shirt. Button-threading snaps and John’s willing to forgive a lot considering the circumstances, but there’s a level of discipline necessary to keep them all safe and Dean, always the dutiful one, is toeing the line.

“Dean, I know. Now that’s enough.”

“He didn’t want to tell me,” Dean says, eyes flickering between John’s like there’s an answer to be found there. A heartbeat later, his cheek brushes up along John’s jaw, his breath a whisper, the skid of his mouth just as faint. “Dad, I’m sorry.”

There’s a dull buzzing in John’s skull, a pressure behind his eyes from the sudden rush of blood. “Dean, what are y-” The words smear to nothing under the push of soft lips and wet tongue. John’s mouth twitches, almost kissing back by ages-old muscle reflex, and if he’s avoided the trap of returning his own son’s kiss, the boy’s not deterred enough. Dean makes this low, anguished sound, and it’s too much like the noise Sam had made when–

John rips his hand out of his pocket to take hold of Dean’s shoulder and force him to arm’s length. He grits his teeth through the pain rocketing from his collarbone to his elbow and doesn’t know what to make of Dean’s expression—eyes unfocused, mouth parted, wetness on his curving lashes. “Son,” he says, trying to remind Dean of everything that word means. “You need to get your head straight.”

He can’t remember the last time he saw tears on Dean’s face, but there they were, sliding damning down his face. He’d do the same, Dad.

Hunting has taken a lot from John, ground him down to little more than sharp edges, and he knows his boys have their share of burdens to bear, but this? Dean would’ve. Dad, he would’ve. It sets John’s stomach to turning all over again to think Sam’s upholding his brother’s willingness to do what was necessary could’ve been a shade of something John’d been blind to. He knew Dean’s loyalty ran deep, how much he valued the bond of blood. Had it grown so twisted after a thousand windy back-road miles and faceless motel rooms?

Frozen before him, Dean is shaking, a slight but relentless tremor that eats away at the ground under John’s boots. “Dean,” he says, and ignoring his own unease, John folds the boy into a hug. The warmth of Dean’s body against his front is foreign, the way Dean holds animal-still before relaxing forces him to try and recall the last time he’d held one of his sons so close.

“Just shy of eighteen and he’s the stupidest kid I’ve ever known,” Dean says, voice thick and muffled where his mouth presses against John’s shoulder. He takes a breath like he’s got more to say, but releases it, the heat seeping through a layer of wool and a layer of cotton to the crescent of angry flesh left by a harpy’s beak. John suppresses the shiver trying to seize his spine, prepared but not enough for the slow lift of Dean’s head and the questioning flicker that asks for permission he can’t give.

It’s bad enough that he doesn’t say anything when Dean’s eyes slide shut and worse, so much goddamn worse, when it’s his judgment that leaves hardly more than a sliver of space between them. John breathes Dean’s breath for a long span of seconds, and it’s no comfort to have been forced to realise that Dean is as much a stranger as Dean is his son.

He breathes in Dean’s shaky, “Dad,” and there’s an adrenaline dump of lust and fear pounding through his veins when the growing thickness of his son’s cock presses against his leg.

Now it’s Dean who doesn’t kiss back, not at first, when their lips stick and catch and John is still reeling over what he’s committing them to. But once Dean starts up again, he makes up for lost time, biting hungrily at John’s mouth as his hands skid to settle at John’s sides, fingers clutching tight. Dean’s breath goes quick and shallow, soft panting that forces him to break away to drag in a solid lungful.

Fallen this far, head-pounding and body responding to Dean’s enthusiasm, John takes Dean’s mouth again. His tongue pushes deep, quickly learns the taste of his son’s mouth. The sound Dean makes when he starts to lick back has John reaching down to palm Dean’s crotch, the natural progression on the hell-bound course he’s set. His thumb finds the hard ridge outlined under soft denim and Dean jerks, moans a curse into his mouth.

“Language,” John warns, pulling back and scraping his lips dry with his teeth.

Dean’s lips stay slack, the moan spilling past them obscene in the hush of the room. The ticking of the wall-clock follows the lazy rhythm of John’s thumb, and Dean’s hands flex hard, his hips twitching like he’s trying to keep from just fucking his daddy’s hand.

“Not fair,” Dean rasps, his grip loosening, fingers gathering fabric to slide under and touch hesitantly at John’s skin. “It’s not fair that I don’t-” He swallows hard and starts to undo John’s belt. “I want to know what you taste like too.”

That’s some fucked-up sibling rivalry and John swears a streak, almost yanks Dean’s hands away from the buckle. He doesn’t though, and loses another curse when Dean is peeling up his undershirt and crouching down to kiss a slow path towards the button of his jeans. With the way Dean’s acting, he half expects him to use his teeth to peel down the zipper, but whatever has Dean playing at this, there’s still a raw nervousness in the fumbling of his fingers, the shaky rush of his breath. Not a virgin by far, something John can’t say about Sam, but Dean’s swagger and appetite for girls has always seen him home before dawn.

“Here,” John says, and nudges Dean’s hands away to open his fly himself. A sickening thrill dizzies him, overwhelms the knowledge that nothing about this is right or good. Dean either feels the same or he’s doing a fair job of hiding the desire to stop, his cheek rubbing against the inside of John’s thigh with more eagerness than hesitation.

The muscles of John’s arm jerk as he stretches his palm out to rest it on the curve of Dean’s head. His shoulder pulses with an ache, but even with the reminder it’s too late to turn back now. His other hand already has his cock free. He feeds it straight into Dean’s waiting mouth, and Dean, obedient as always, swallows what he can, lips going taut, his eyes snapping up to meet John’s.

“That’s good,” John tells him because it seems like the right thing to say. “Really good.” Dean responds by pulling back, mouth softening, giving John a good show of where the head of his cock rests wet and darkly flushed on the flat of Dean’s tongue.

There are questions simmering in the back of his mind, things he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know the answers to. How much about his own son does he not know? Unconsciously, his hand fists in Dean’s hair, the length just long enough to get a solid hold on, and Dean’s eyes widen a fraction. How much should he know?

Not this much, that’s the goddamned truth. John stares Dean down, asks, “More?” and the gritty moan humming down the length of his cock makes him tighten his grip in Dean’s short hair. “You want a better taste?”

Dean tries to swallow, tries to speak, tries to nod, and can’t hardly do any of it as John holds him in place and fucks back into his mouth. He moans again though, guards his teeth and starts tearing his own pants open, fist finding his cock and flying along the length of it. It’s a dozen sweet thrusts into Dean’s mouth accompanied by the smack of flesh before John has to pull back and stop, because no matter how fucking good it feels, it’s close enough to the mess the week before only lacking the spattering of the rain.

It doesn’t factor in to John that Dean’s not Sam, and it’s not just the less sloppy technique, but rather that he won’t quit, even when there isn’t a life hanging in the balance.

“Son,” John says, and has to force Dean back with a hand over his face, fingers digging into his cheeks like a muzzle.

Dean just makes another hungry sound, twists to suck John’s fingers, tongue forcing between digits in a lewd push. He’s still beating off, arm moving slower but in a definite rhythm, and a glance reveals the shining mess of precome slicked over the head of his dick.

“Dean.”

“Let me,” Dean says, and then he’s settling on his heels, fucking his fist and practically begging. “Fuck, just let me.”

John’s hand slides out of Dean’s hair. He’s treading on dangerous ground and he’s about to break more than his own moral rules trying to find his way. You get burned jumping into the unknown without a point of reference–he’s got the scars to prove it, but this is a mark that runs deeper, darker. This is a different sort of poison.

He nods towards the battered couch shoved up against the wall. The profile of the cushions is low to begin with, but with his weight bowing them down, his knees are jackknifed. His spreads his legs out, bootheels dragging along the dusty carpet, and Dean rises up to draw near. Dean’s cock spears out from the open vee of his fly and though John’s seen him stripped to the skin often enough, he’s never seen him hard.

“C’mere,” John says, and pulls Dean forward but not down. “Turn around.”

Dean falters, and John guides him to perch on the lip of the couch. Dean’s muscles are corded tight, but he’s docile in John’s hands as John strips him of his shirt, pulls it up and over his head and hauls Dean up close to him again. The warmth of Dean’s skin floods John’s chest, and John settles his chin at the strong slope of Dean’s shoulder as his hands spread wide over his son’s flat belly.

“Planning to get yourself off, boy?” he asks as his fingers skim down to the hot length of Dean’s cock. A fresh surge of blood thickens it as he curls his grip, and Dean does nothing less than squirm, the seat of his pants brushing against John’s crotch.

“Was,” Dean admits. “Didn’t think you’d–” He gasps, twists both into and away from the scratch of John’s face against his neck. His cock jerks, come spitting in a high arc to fleck his chest and stomach white. “Shit. Oh, shit.”

John strokes him through it, smears the mess into Dean’s skin when Dean calms down enough to keep still. “Didn’t I warn you about language?” he says.

“Gonna spank me?” Dean asks. The corner of his mouth is tugged high until he turns enough to catch John’s expression. His momentary boldness vanishes, the natural flush of pleasure on his cheeks darkening a few shades. “Sir, I didn’t mean that.”

“Taught you better than to say things you don’t mean.”

Dean’s blush drains, leaves him pale, the scatter of freckles on his face contrasting sharply. He moves with a numbness to him when John tells him to get up. When he realises he isn’t dismissed, the relief that shows in his eyes is knife-edge keen.

John pulls him back in, face-to-face again, and the old springs in the couch creak as Dean straddles his lap. Dean’s legs spread wide, his thighs brushing the tops of John’s, and John doesn’t have a plan beyond trial and error.

“Also taught you better than to not follow things through, didn’t I?”

A quick flash of pink tongue wets Dean’s lips to shining again. “How should….”

He cradles Dean’s face in one palm, puts pressure behind the hinge of Dean’s jaw to bring him into a fresh kiss. Dean melts right into it, his hands finding the back of the couch to prop there and take some of the strain off the muscles in his leg. If he sucks dick like an amateur, he kisses like a seasoned pro, his mouth going from pliant to demanding. It’s not in John’s nature to let someone else take the lead when he’s feeling lost in the dark, but it’s beyond him what Dean needs from him right now and there’s something that says the boy’s fragile.

“Here,” John says. He peels his hands away from Dean’s hips to take his son’s hand and guide it between them.

Dean doesn’t need further instruction. His tugging grip is more firm than steady, the gentle rock of his body finding a slow pace that John’s hand matches in long sweeping strokes down the ripple of Dean’s spine.

“Almost?” Dean asks, kiss faltering and mouth pressing open against John’s cheek.

John holds him tighter, scrapes teeth against the soft skin of Dean’s neck. He closes his eyes, lets the flex of Dean’s muscles lull him into the pure pleasure of the act, forget everything except a willing touch that isn’t his own.

Dean groans louder than he does when he comes, the mess spreading thick on his belly and smearing wet over Dean’s fingers. He can hear it under the harshness of their breathing, the slickness of his come turning sticky with each slowing tug.

The day’s moving to night and in the growing shadows, John opens his eyes to the new hole in the ground he’s struck bottom of.

“About time you fetched your brother, isn’t it?” he says, hands falling away from Dean’s back.

“Yeah.”

“Go wash up. You don’t want to be late.”

“Right.” Dean’s voice is gritty, his manner subdued. John wonders—prays—that it means he’s feeling the same hollow regret.

Watching Dean slide off the couch, limp more pronounced leaving than when he’d entered, John takes off his shirt to clean himself up best he can, and doubts he’s got enough luck left for any prayers to be heard. He wads up the stained woolen shirt and tucks it next to his leg. Tipping his head back, John stares up at the ceiling. Absently he runs a hand up his arm to touch his shoulder, trace the bitemark there and pray instead that there’s still some foulness in his blood instead of just sin and ruinous decisions.

He’s still sitting there when Dean’s tearing out the door, keys jingling. The front door slamming shut rattles through the walls, pushes a breeze to ripple across the pages upon pages of tragedy and horror pinned like so many dead butterflies.

John drapes an arm over his face.

No luck at all.

*

End

The moon and the wisteria are blooming tonight and he went and let a devil in his house.

Saturn’s Shadow

The Winchester boys have always stuck together, thick as thieves, and Bobby wonders where it is the younger’s gone off to. Not to hunt, that’s a sure enough call. The kid doesn’t have the drive without Dean hounding him. Sam lacks the passion that seized John when Mary got taken, escaped somehow getting the poison of the life in his blood like his big brother.

So Bobby figures it’s best to keep his trap shut and not let curiosity get the better of him. He won’t ask about Dean’s daddy, neither, since that’s a can of worms on a good day and liable to send the kid packing before he gets one foot on the porch. Word has it John’s been prowling the back roads as fierce as he did when he first took to hunting.

No sense dwelling on the one who didn’t come calling; the house is lonely enough tonight with the last of Helen’s wisteria blooming and thickening the air. Bobby opens the screen and offers Dean a beer as he steps over the salt.

“You old enough to drink?” Bobby asks, taking two from the fridge and cracking them open. It’s been a while since he’s had guests, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind scooping aside a pile of newspapers to make himself comfortable in a long-legged sprawl.

Dean licks his lips before raising his bottle. “Funny,” he says, a tiredness in his voice.

A switch flips and Bobby sees him as he is. There’s nothing mixed-up or angry about the deep furrow in his brow that doesn’t quite disappear. Dean looks nothing more than beat down, with the darkness under his eyes tallying up a few nights of missing sleep at the least.

“What’re you doing here, Dean?” That’s a question Bobby’s not going to shy away from.

“I dunno.”

Fair enough.

“Warm night,” Bobby says. If this were ten years back, he’d have a house full of Winchesters. John’d be down to his shirtsleeves, and they’d be out back, shooting the shit and throwing knives at the dying stump of a gnarled old oak that a thunderstorm had claimed. And Dean’d be holed up inside with Sam, a shadow hovering near the second-floor window trying to catch the conversation that filtered up with the smoke of Bobby’s cigarettes.

“Wanna go outside?”

Bobby looks to the door. He’s quit smoking since, though his lips remember the feel of holding a fresh cigarette and that first pull of smoke in his lungs. Funny how certain things stick with a man. “No.”

The plain and simple answer catches Dean off guard, like the kid was banking on a right cross and ended up with a fist in the gut. His eyes blink, and then he rocks back in his chair, smiling around the mouth of the bottle. Only the smile doesn’t sit right on his face, seeming more like a demon’s mimicry, skin forced to stretch in falsehood. “I shouldn’t be here,” Dean says.

Silently, Bobby agrees, but that doesn’t stop him from telling Dean that he still keeps a spare room up on the second floor. He’s not sure Dean’s going to go for the charity, less so when Dean’s stomping out to his car again with keys in hand, but that Winchester stubbornness bends enough that Dean collects a bag from the trunk and comes back inside.

“Same as always, second on the left,” Bobby tells him, and the flinch Dean can’t quite hide makes Bobby’s insides knot up like his supper didn’t agree with him. He curses his own stupidity, but there’s no excusing the bad form if something final had come to Sam. “Actually, why don’t you take my room and I’ll take the couch. Forgot I had started cleaning out that old room a month ago. Place is a mess.”

The set of Dean’s jaw plainly says he doesn’t buy the lie, but his pride’s already bent enough he doesn’t call Bobby’s bluff. His grip on the banister eases and he mumbles a rough, “Thanks,” as Bobby promises him breakfast and waves him on up.

He’s asleep on his stomach with his boots trailing their laces while still clinging to his feet when Bobby comes in with a bundle of fresh linens. Bobby hangs at the door, debating whether or not to make a sound or just leave the sheets near at hand as a gesture at least. Helen would have a fit about the boots if she saw Bobby letting the kid sleep like that, but there’s nothing smart about waking a hunter, and Dean’s built muscle since the last time John had brought his boys by.

Not a kid, not with the miles and kills Dean’s racked up, but no matter how hard he tries, Bobby can’t see him otherwise. He’s outgrown being all skin and bone, but there’s still a leanness about him, his ribs not carrying enough meat that they show as faint ripples under the worn stretch of his tee.

“Must’ve dozed off,” Dean says, shoving himself up and putting the heel of his hand to his forehead. He sucks in a deep breath and swivels into sitting, bending near in two to reach down and yank off his boots. “Sorry about that.”

Bobby can’t say how long he’d been standing there, just knows his arms have stiffened, his muscles faintly aching when he hefts up the linens and nods at the bed. “Fetched you some clean sheets.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

He can’t escape it, seems like—Dean’s got just enough of his father in him that traces of John linger in his gestures, and it shows up most when Dean’s not trying so hard to be a carbon copy of the man. Bobby supposes that’s something Dean wouldn’t know, since if John Winchester was a brick wall to the world, those bricks came steel-reinforced where his own blood was concerned.

It rends Bobby to the core when Dean catches his arm and says, “Don’t leave just yet.”

“It’s getting on late.” Bobby pats Dean’s hand awkwardly, praying the boy’ll let go.

But Dean scoots closer to the edge of the bed, the covers dragging with him. His bare feet whisper along the floorboards, slender toes pale against the wood. He’s got broken written all over him, from the landslide slope of his shoulders to the way his eyes won’t lift. “Bobby, please.”

Lips touch to his knuckles briefly as Dean’s face turns to press against his hand. Warm breath stirs the hair on his arm in soft, anxious bursts.

“Look, son, you should get some sleep.” Dean makes this choked sound and Bobby’s stomach goes to knots all over again. It gets worse when Dean’s mouth opens, soft tongue licking just above the joint of his thumb.

Bobby tears his arm away, sets his grip firm on Dean’s shoulders to shake the boy out of his foolishness. “This ain’t the way,” he says, and it’s now that Dean’s eyes lift, hazy as morning fog and with a hungry sort of look that shouldn’t ever be turned towards a man like Bobby.

“Don’t care how you want me,” Dean says. He comes off the bed like a ragdoll, his knees knocking against the wood before they slip into a spread wide enough to level his mouth with Bobby’s belt. “I’ll do anything.”

With a shaky hand, Bobby lifts his cap to scratch at his scalp. His skin’s gone prickly and tight all over like a wool suit that’s shrunk in the wash. He’s got no right and it ain’t fair for Dean to put this on him. The moon and the wisteria are blooming tonight and he went and let a devil in his house.

“Doesn’t matter what you’re willing to do,” Bobby protests, fixing his cap back on his head, but nothing gets past whatever it is that Dean’s built up around himself.

“I know how to make it good,” Dean says, and Bobby doesn’t know what to make of that. Hopes it isn’t what it seems when Dean glances up, a sloppy grin on his face when Bobby doesn’t keep the boy from palming him through his Levis. A stronger man would draw a line and walk away. A smarter man would do the same. If John caught wind of this, he’d tan Dean’s hide, twenty-something or not. He’d be a measure less merciful to Bobby.

“He’s gone,” Dean says, undoing Bobby’s belt with steady hands. His voice had fallen so low and quiet it might’ve been the rustle of the curtains, but he says it again when Bobby’s warm and swelling in his hand.

It’s Sam. It’s Sam and not John, but that there’s an old wound that aches and warns about storms to come as much as the crack in his shin a Banshee left him. Bobby retreats a step and Dean has none of it, hand clutching at the front of his jeans like a lifeline. Might as well be another Banshee, another empty morning, for the high-pitched noise keening in his skull.

“No fault of yours,” Bobby tells him, half a guess, and gently pries at Dean’s fingers.

It’s unnecessary as it turns out. Dean flares up in a blink, the slow burn of his mood finally hitting gasoline. “Don’t you tell me that,” he says, scrambling to stand. His fist curls in Bobby’s shirt, and if it’s a bit of violence to come, that’s an easy fire to put out. “He’s gone. He left. Run off to college.”

The way Dean says ‘college’ turns it into a four letter word, but Bobby’s treated to a tiny trickle of relief that Sam hasn’t been reduced to a pile of ashes and a pair of dates on a cross. Dean’s muscles are bunched, and the seams of Bobby’s front pocket lose a few threads with a subtle snapsnap.

“He’s gone and noth-” Dean cuts off in a snarl, and lists forward, head dropping against Bobby’s shoulder and fist loosening its hold. Lax fingers slip down Bobby’s chest. He draws away, and a shiver lances through Bobby at the flatness in Dean’s tone when he says, “Sorry I came here, I’ll get out of your hair.”

There’s nothing good down either fork in the road, and Bobby’s got about half a second to make the choice. “I invited you in,” he says, a prayer in the back of his head that he’s not doing more harm than good. He sets his hands to Dean’s shoulders again, slides them slow down his arms until his touch rests light at Dean’s elbows. “House is too big for one man most of the year. Company’s welcome.”

Dean’s eyes are dangerously guarded, no lust in them now, but worse than that, no spark of anything lively to speak of. “Bobby….”

“It’s just been a while. You understand that, right?” Bobby swallows around the dense lump in his throat. “You caught me off my guard.”

Pink flashes as Dean wets his lips. He draws in a slow breath and then his mouth turns in a lazy smile that knocks the wind straight out of Bobby’s lungs. Whine louder and the boys’ll hear you. Bobby blinks just as Dean says, “Yeah?” and Dean’s smile changes quick enough. It’s not much better to see his face go smug as a hustler’s, and yet it keeps Bobby from backing down again, lets him hold his ground while Dean searches out his prick. Dean’s eyes head towards glittering again.

“Want to feel you hard,” he says, voice smouldering and crackling like banked coals. His fingers tease and pull, and the tip of his nose nudges the edge of Bobby’s jaw, tongue flicking out to taste the spot where Bobby’s pulse is hammering along right under the surface. “Yeah, that’s it. Gonna suck your nice fat cock.”

True to his word, Dean slinks right back ot his knees, and his mouth is warm and wet and ohhh so very willing as he takes Bobby full in, tongue soft and lips firm, and there’s no question the boy knows what he’s doing as he works Bobby’s flag higher than half-mast. His fingers curl at the base of Bobby’s dick and Bobby tries not to look, but can’t drag his eyes away from the gravity pull of the mouth working so skillful on him. He finds Dean gazing up at him, and the kid is into it, so much it makes Bobby’s erection droop. Dean doubles up his effort and Bobby sees the dichotomy beyond the surface of that eager gaze turned up at him. There’s an obsidian sharp edge riding up alongside something bird-fragile, and it’s a trigger, sure as when John had first kissed him, stubble-scraping and harsh, with a grated, “We could use this,” as excuse and plea all at once.

Bobby gasps, and it’s wrong enough to let the kid continue, but it’s worse to put his hand on Dean’s head and feel how the texture’s not much different than his daddy’s. He’s done a lot of things he ain’t proud of, and a principled life hasn’t always been his way, but this is skirting a line Bobby’s not sure he can come to terms with. What really carries the nettle’s sting is suspecting it’s old wounds making him toss his cap aside and haul the boy up for a kiss. His hands splay over Dean’s taut belly, slide up and drag his tee-shirt with until his trembling fingertips are spread over the curve of Dean’s ribcage. Kid’s wolf-lean and outside in the gloom, he’s every bit a predator, but here…. Dean’s heartbeat mirrors his own, and the kid kisses like it’s the last time he ever will, mouth hungry and needy as the fullness of his lips slide wet against Bobby’s.

“Gonna fuck me?” Dean asks. His hands settle on Bobby’s hips, stance shifting to rub the bulge of his crotch against Bobby’s thigh.

“You want me to?” Bobby knows that’s the wrong answer, but it’s the one that comes natural. He goes against the grain, manhandles Dean around and shoves his face down, holds him bent forward over the bed. He steels his voice a second time, and it’s not his own voice he hears in his head as his mouth moves in a parody. “You want me to? Just like this?”

Dean sways, a moan pouring out of him that’s wanton enough it raises Bobby’s temperature a bit on its own. “Yeah. Yeah, c’mon.” The kid twists his head to the side to drop his weight onto his chest, and reaches back, fumbling with his jeans and shoving them down over the perfect curve of his ass. “Just stick it in me.”

“Stay there,” Bobby says, and keeps his own pants up with one hand as he goes towards the dresser.

A low whine comes from the bed. Whine louder and…. Bobby glances over his shoulder, and he can almost see it, the time-eaten memory still strong enough to recall the smell of John’s sweat, the weight of his body and the way he’d trembled after, so faint Bobby’d expected the worst. That came later, a lot later, but guns and regret are the way of things in this life.

“Not leaving me, are you, Bobby?” Dean asks. His legs shake, and his hands are hooked to the back of his thighs like he needs to offer himself up more than he already is.

“Just getting something to make it easier,” Bobby tells him. He fumbles through a drawer full of odds and ends, screwdrivers, and old papers, and a couple bottles of aspirin rattling around before he finds a jar of vaseline. The thing is old enough the lid’s made of metal not plastic, and there’s a rim of rust, but it opens up and Bobby scoops out a generous amount with his fingers. Dean’s back stiffens in anticipation as he comes back, and the petroleum smell wafts up as Bobby greases up his cock and spreads the rest over Dean’s hole.

“No fingers, just give it to me,” Dean says, repeating himself a second time under his breath.

Bobby doesn’t argue. He lines himself up, and Dean does half the work, the kid shoving back, tight enough that Bobby’s dick does more bending than anything until something gives, and then he’s two inches in and Dean’s writhing and begging for more. Christ.

“Deeper, Bobby. Fill me up. Want you in me so far I’m gagging on it.”

Bobby grits his teeth, Dean’s dirty litany lags in second place behind the furnace that is the kid’s body. Dean’s shirt is rucked up above his shoulderblades, and Bobby only has a moment to admire the line of shadow tracing across the valley of Dean’s spine before Dean is moving, tugging the shirt off over his head and leaving it tangled in one fist. Dean’s good as naked before him, and it’s not quite true that everyone looks the same face down, but it’s enough of a lie to get Bobby pumping faster.

It was never like this, ’cause John would go to Hell before he went easy for anything, and he never lay back and spread his legs, neither, but that hadn’t kept Bobby from thinking about how it’d feel to have his dick somewhere other than John’s mouth.

“Oh God, Sammy,” Dean shudders, raising up on his hands to fuck himself harder on Bobby’s cock, and Bobby feels this sickening thrill rise up behind his breastbone at the way Dean calls out his brother’s name.

Bobby holds his tongue and only slams into Dean harder, the force of it knocking Dean flat to his chest again. Dean’s hands claw at the sheets, and he moans his brother’s name again. Bobby closes his eyes and gives in to his own lie, because if the sound of Dean’s voice threatens to break the illusion, the sound of his breathing and the harsh grunting noises he makes mends the damage and then some.

“We could use this.”

Bobby feels the echo of a kiss, the abrasion of more along his chest, and a snarl of lust so strong his fingers clamp on Dean’s hip bruising hard. He comes deep inside the kid, and the subtle fog lifts enough for him to see Dean came a long while back, slid messy against the sheets while Bobby fucked him a good ten minutes after. He’s worn out, glad for it by the noises he makes even after Bobby pulls out and wipes him clean with the edge of his shirt.

Dean crawls into the bed, and leaves space enough for Bobby to fall in alongside him.

“I could’ve stopped him,” Dean says, with a certainty that resonates. He curls towards Bobby, and some last-remaining shred of tension eases out of Dean’s body when Bobby holds him close. John had left those tremors in his care, too. Bobby swallows hard and looks at Dean, intent on staying with the kid instead of slipping back into a fool’s wishful thinking. “I could’ve kept him from leaving. He would’ve stayed if I’d asked.” After a beat, Dean adds, “Would’ve followed him if he’d asked.”

Bobby doesn’t know which of John’s boys to envy more. “Gotta let some things go,” he says.

“Yeah.”

Later, with the lights off and Dean’s warm body pressed up tight against him for the night, Bobby lifts his hand. His fingers refuse to quit their shaking until he forms a fist. His knuckles ache he holds it so long. The shadow beside him sleeps restlessly, calls out every so often in an anxious voice for his brother (his wife).

Bobby relaxes his fingers, blood rushing back to each digit with an even deeper ache.

Some things are too important to let go.

*

End

YOUR CONTRACT IS OVERDUE FOR COLLECTION, CROWLEY.

In Sum

It was late in the day, so late that the sun hurried over the horizon for fear of holding up night. As a result of the sun’s hasty retreat the sky blazed beautifully, a painted mosaic of reds and purples and other glorious colours as engineered by a pall of low-hanging smog. It should have been a Kodak moment. Unfortunately, the driver and passenger seated in the car upon the cliff weren’t taking much interest in the view provided by the local Lovers’ Lane.

“It’s just not the same,” Crowley said. The seat beneath him, covered with a leather so buttery it could have graced a slice of toast and no one would have noticed the difference in taste, sighed as he shifted about. Crowley also sighed.

“Well it’s only temporary,” Aziraphale reminded him.

Crowley had a few choice words on that, including how being temporary didn’t change the fact no car yet had quite lived up to his former, but the radio sputtered on and cut him off before he could say anything^[1].

“CROWLEY.”

“Should I step out?” Aziraphale asked, staring at the newly installed radio. It was of a turn of the century design, and not this century either. Aziraphale found this rather comforting, as the only modern musical device he owned was a gramophone. He had briefly considered looking into one of those iPods he’d heard so much about until he discovered that they were all Crowley’s idea in the first place.

“DO YOU HAVE AN ANGEL IN THERE WITH YOU, CROWLEY?”

Breaking out in a cold sweat, Crowley gave Aziraphale a Look^[2]. “N-no, lord. Never. An angel?”

“IF YOU DO YOU CAN TELL ME, CROWLEY.”

“Don’t be absurd, lord, why would I-“

“YOU WOULDN’T, CROWLEY.”

“Of course, lord.”

“OUR CURRENT…PROJECT…IS RUNNING ON SCHEDULE, HOWEVER, THERE IS SOMETHING YOU NEED TO DO RIGHT NOW, CROWLEY.”

“Another task for me, lord?”

“YOUR CONTRACT IS OVERDUE FOR COLLECTION, CROWLEY.”

“M-my what, lord?”

And then Crowley knew. He slumped forward, his head banging against the steering wheel until he felt better. Relatively better, anyway. He was supposed to be on holiday.^[3] Also, now his head ached a bit.

“Problem?” Aziraphale asked, after the radio had remained silent for a stretch.

“It seems there’s been a mix-up with some paperwork.”

*

“The tall one seems nice.”

As the two young men went directly into their motel room, Crowley eeled away from the inky black shadow that was his new temporary car. He plucked his sunglasses off his head and slid them on over his eyes. No use startling the poor sods. “He’s the new back-up plan for the Antichrist.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He took a second look. “Well, he still seems nice. And I suppose the first Antichrist didn’t turn out so badly.”

Privately Crowley agreed, but even if Aziraphale was right, a part of him prickled at the implication that his side would do so poorly twice in their bid for the Apocalypse. He told that part to prickle less noticeably as he approached the door numbered “8” and rapped his knuckles on the wood.

One of the young men peered through the blinds. Aziraphale, being closer to the window, smiled and waved hello.

From the other side of the door came the sound of a lock being unlocked and a chain being unchained. “Can I help you?” asked the Not-Quite-Antichrist-Yet half of the Winchester duo.

Aziraphale cut in front of Crowley faster than a latte-slinging mid-level executive late for a meeting. “Is that a Heidenberg Steganographia?” he asked, eyes alight as he gestured to the book tucked under Sam Winchester’s arm.

Sam seemed momentarily taken aback, but he produced it from under his arm. He tipped it to the side, fingers stroking along the spine where a tiny publishers mark was barely visible on the aging leather. When out and about, something in Aziraphale’s manner always managed to strike a chord with the scholarly types. However when the chord-striking occurred while the subject of a rare and interesting book hung in the balance, Crowley harboured some suspicions.

“Sam, what are you doing?”

Crowley’s suspicions only mounted when after only a meager handful of hushed words Sam invited Aziraphale straight in.

“Sam!”

“Dean, this is wingsnthings44!”

Crowley’s brows shot straight to Heaven^[4]. Dean’s weren’t far behind^[5], but for a different reason, Crowley presumed.

“Is that a screenname?” Crowley asked, slowly as if in a daze or perhaps a very thick syrup. Aziraphale discovering the Internet was possibly a more sure sign of impending doom than anything Crowley’s bosses could’ve put into motion.

“Libraries have all sorts of interesting things these days, Crowley,” Aziraphale replied. The peaked colour of his cheeks suggested a blush. The flush to his neck confirmed one.

Dean’s voice knifed through Crowley’s woolly little cloud of disbelief. “Is that your friend?” he asked while gesturing towards Crowley. “He cool?”

“Oh yes, that’s Crowley.” Aziraphale fair hovered over Sam’s elbow. His fingers visibly itched to touch the musty old volume. “Mm-hmm.”

Aziraphale’s vague assurance was shockingly good enough for Dean. “Hurry up and come in then,” Dean said. He lowered the gun which he had been holding for a while but which didn’t seem important enough to mention in the narrative until now.

Crowley remained on the doorstep. He cleared his throat.

“Problem?” Dean said. His eyes jumped to the line of salt which Crowley would not (and more importantly could not) cross.

Sam’s head lifted sharply.

Dean’s gun also lifted sharply. It resumed its job of pointing menacingly.

Meanwhile, Sam’s eyes followed the same jump as Dean’s and came to a similar conclusion. As a result, he dropped his book in favour of drawing a gun from the back of his pants.

“I’m here about a contract,” said Crowley.

Sam cocked his gun.

“Oh my,” said Aziraphale, bending to retrieve the Steganographia. He straightened up and blinked as he noticed all the weaponry being pointed about. “Oh my,” he repeated.

*

“Look, I don’t care what your boyfriend says, you’re a demon.”

“Aziraphale is not my-” Crowley cut off when Aziraphale happened to be saying the same thing, only with Crowley’s name in place of his own. Similarly, Aziraphale had abandoned his protest. Some days it was just easier to not have to explain ones actual lack of gender.

“Dean, what if he’s telling the truth.” Sam had abandoned his gun when it had refused to fire and upon repeated attempts sprouted a little “BANG” flag. Suffice it to say, Crowley was not responsible for that.

“Next thing you’ll be telling me angels are real.”

Standing halfway between the Winchesters and Crowley, Aziraphale shrugged. For some reason, they continued to ignore him as anything resembling a threat.

“They are real,” Sam insisted. He turned to his brother with frustration written all over his face. “Why do you think I’ve been reading incantations all day? To practice my latin?”

Dean hadn’t dropped his gun, but he’d started to gesture with it. His flag waved around limply. “You said it yourself that thing was a hoax.”

“Well with you overdue, I’ve been covering my bases in case this happened!”

“Overdue? What am I, a freaking library book?”

“Dean, be serious.”

“On the off-chance that we could summon an angel, don’t you think that’d be useful?”

“What if I lose the contract?” Crowley suggested before any further bickering went on. No one in Hell would be happy with that, but it was getting late, and he had some sleep to catch up on.

“Lose it?”

“Look,” Crowley pushed his sunglasses up and leaned as far into the doorway as the salt would let him, “I don’t want your soul. Believe me. I don’t have any place to put it, for one.”

“It’s true,” Aziraphale interjected. “He likes that modern look in his flat. Lots of space and uncomfortable furniture, you know.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam asked.

“I think a shop by the name of IKEA is in some part responsible. Do you have any of those here in the Colonies?”

Dean shot a glare at Aziraphale. “Losing the contract, Poindexter, not the interior decorating.”

“Contracts get misplaced all the time,” Crowley explained, raising his voice to keep the conversation on track. “Bureaucracy is Hell is not merely an expression. Some demons try and cut the paperwork^[6], but yours is an important soul so no one can argue my sticking to the rules. I’ll claim it now, but I promise not to deliver downstairs until the contract proper, virgin’s blood and all, makes it into my hands.

“With the state of Royal Mail these days, I can see to it that it’s lost for centuries. That gives plenty of time for you and Sam to live out your lives.”

“And for my side to pull a few strings!” Aziraphale chimed in. Crowley noticed the Steganographia was no longer in his hands, or anywhere else in the room for that matter, but there was an odd, book-shaped lump under the leaf of his coat. There might be hope for the angel yet.

“We’ll have to think about it.”

“Don’t take too long,” Crowley said as the Winchesters formed an intimate huddle. Aziraphale attempted to “stretch his ears” so to speak, but for the first time in a while, the brothers seemed to care that he was even in the room. With nothing better to do, the angel took up leaning on the other side of Crowley’s doorframe.

“What about a car like that one?” Aziraphale said, pointing to the black 1967 Impala.

Crowley rolled his eyes. Aziraphale was hopeless after all.

*

The Following Week

“You’d like to declare what, sir?”

Crowley jabbed Aziraphale in the side with his elbow before the words “a soul” could be uttered once more in the presence of the harried customs clerk.

“Just some chocolates,” Crowley said, sliding across the appropriate form. Avoiding some paperwork inevitably spawns even more that needs filling out. And technically speaking he’d just claimed the soul, he certainly wasn’t going to go about carting it around with him.

“So who is the third choice for Antichrist?” Aziraphale asked as they left Heathrow in an Aston Martin DB5 that Crowley had arranged for^[7]. “If the current trend continues, I think I’d rather like to meet him.”

“Does that book really hold the key to summoning angels?” Crowley asked, changing the subject by gesturing at the bulge in Aziraphale’s coat which the angel most certainly didn’t try and declare at the customs desk.

“Only if you have all three volumes and a De Septum Secundeis to decode it with,” Aziraphale answered. His cheeks had turned a flattering shade of pink again.

“Huh,” Crowley said.

That about summed up everything.

*

End

^[1] Crowley had insisted the Maserati dealership remove the radio before he’d even consider a purchase. This didn’t stop Hell.

^[2] A “shut the Hell up” look to be precise, but there’s liable to be enough bad humour in this story as is.

^[3] One privately chartered transatlantic flight culminating in a lengthy mishap with airport security (in no small part due to Aziriphale’s lack of a passport and embarrassing tendency to not lie or approve of demons lying for him), and several flat, uninteresting states later, Crowley had begun to wonder if the angel’s desire to “See America with his own eyes” was really much of a holiday at all.

^[4] Metaphorically.

^[5] Still metaphorically.

^[6] Crowley was (and is) one of those demons, and thanks to a correspondence course he participated in during the decade preceding the 1990s, he’s quite good at manipulating his demonic papertrail.

^[7] The DB5 proved nicer than the new model Maserati. It still wasn’t the same. Crowley did however enjoy knowing what it felt like to drive a car from a James Bond film, especially since it had been bouncing around on the black market since sometime in ’97.